Lavender Terror
by srslycirce
Summary: Psychological warfare in the 1950s. America knows he hates Russia. What he doesn't know is how to survive what Russia is doing to his mind. The USSR has already gone round the bend; the USA's sanity is the world's last hope. Eventual slash.


It began with dreams. Stupid, stupid dreams.

They were stupid because America didn't understand them. He had plenty of dreams, of course – who hadn't heard of the American dream? But there had never been such an American nightmare.

He didn't remember them properly at first, which made him even angrier. At the beginning, this is all he had: Looming terror. Screams and moans of pain. A cold wind. The color red. And he would wake up in the middle sweaty and shaking, his heart aflame, and feeling that he should be running but unable to remember what from. It sucked.

He got what it literally meant; he wasn't as stupid as he looked. Red meant communism, that was easy. So he was afraid of the Soviets – so what? He could stand up to them. He should dream about fighting them, about punching Russia in the face and winning, not about ideas ghosting about and scaring the crap out of him. That wasn't how it was supposed to go. His own dreams were betraying him.

It made him not want to sleep anymore, and he had always liked sleep – though that didn't mean he was lazy, mind you. But before he had always spent his day in cheerful awesomeness and had fallen into bed exhausted around midnight, sleeping until noon. Now he came home glum at the prospect of the approach of night, and stayed up watching TV or listening to the radio on full blast or whatever in the hopes of avoiding sleep long enough that his subconscious might just get frustrated and give up on tormenting him. It never worked, but hey, it was worth trying. Again and again and again.

It was starting to get to America, truth be told. He was becoming a grump, which was totally the antithesis of what he should be. He was starting to look haggard and older. Soon he and England would be indistinguishable, a thought too horrifying to contemplate. He was bitter towards his friends and frothing with rage towards his enemies. During a recent meeting with China, he had in the middle of a lull in the conversation stood up, thrown his coffee at the other nation, and left. No good reason, other than that he hated commies, and really felt like throwing something. Work was bad, life was bad when it shouldn't have been. America would have been willing to just assume it was a phase, that it would pass, except for that it was getting worse. The day that convinced him something had to be done started like this:

He had been attempting to do four things at once: listen to the radio, drink crappy instant coffee, read the paper, and forget about the work he had to do. None of these were a rousing success. He had decided to invite Britain over for lunch, so that at least having someone else to talk to would give him a distraction. Britain had been surprised, but had agreed and had shown up in a few minutes.

Now they were in America's backyard. Britain was in a lawn chair, flipping disinterestedly through a copy of Time magazine; America was at the grill, staring at a few burgers. The smell of grease was oddly soothing, and the heat shimmered in the air. It was hot enough already – the sun reflected off of all of bright-white houses and bright-white fences and bright-green grass, so that there were no shadows left in the neighborhood. Humidity lay over everything in a sticky fog that kept one from moving too much. America noticed a fly ogling the meat; he squashed it promptly with the skewer. Britain waved the magazine at himself in a futile effort to move the air.

"Life is good," said America, and in saying it he almost really meant it. He didn't bother turning to look at Britain. They were close enough friends to not have to worry about eye contact when it wasn't necessary.

Britain hmphed thoughtfully. "It's been good for all of us since the war. Better than fighting, anyway. How long has it been? Coming up on fifteen years now?"  
"Yeah." The burgers were becoming charred around the edges, but America liked them well-done anyway. "It seems like less."  
"Well, you know. Time moves quickly for us and all. It must have been years since I last came here." A gnat landed on Britain's eyebrow and he scowled and flicked it away. "This weather of yours is reminding me why."  
"You're one to talk! When's the last time you had a sunny day, huh?"  
"Some of us prefer a bit of glum fog to the sun trying to kill us, thank you."  
"Vampire." America grinned. This was nice. Nice and normal interaction. A relief.  
Britain opened his magazine again and glanced over a page without reading it. "Any particular reason you invited me over? I'm not going to lend you any money. You earn more than me by now anyway."  
"Hey! I'm allowed to have actual friendships, thank you! Maybe I just enjoy your company!"  
Britain chuckled. "Wow, unmotivated social interaction. I'm proud of you."  
"Aw, thanks. I try." The grill sizzled in silence for a while.  
"I really am proud of you," Britain said more seriously. He looked over the side of the fence, as if he was ashamed to speak in front of the merry suburban families. "I must admit, before the wars I still saw you as a rebellious child. Now look at you. Fending for yourself, sticking up for others, being a responsible world citizen. You're probably the strongest of us now."  
"Probably," said America. He stared at the burgers and used the skewer to flip them. Completely black on that side. Perfect. "Life is good," he repeated, less sure of it now. "It would be perfect if it wasn't for the communists." Britain burst out laughing. America whirled around. "What! What's so funny?" He had admitted his worst fear and hadn't expected laughter. It was damn rude.  
"Oh, just you and your preoccupation with communism. As if you're in any danger." Britain shook his head and smiled.  
America's stomach turned in inexplicable disgust. "You don't think they're a problem? They're every-fucking-where, man. They want the world."  
"Everybody wants to rule the world, boy. There's nothing to worry about." He wasn't laughing anymore, but still bore a smug smile. The fool.  
America glared at him, eyes stinging from sweat. A gnat made moves to invade his eyelashes and he blinked it away. "I'll judge which of my problems are worth my worry, thanks." He stabbed at one of the burgers for no good reason. It squelched, and bubbles popped in its juices. He contemplated the patterns of grease running down the grill. A few tense seconds passed. "I need a wife," America said, unsure of how he had come to that conclusion.  
Britain laughed again. America kind of hated his laugh. It was pitchy and pretentious, a literal a-ha-ha-ha. "You're hilarious today, my friend."  
"Goddamn you! I'm telling you my deepest fucking hopes and fears here and you keep cracking up!" America waved the skewer, grease drops flying.  
"Sorry, sorry." Britain grinned, not looking sorry at all. "But honestly, where on earth would you find a wife?"  
America snorted. "There's gotta be one for me out there somewhere. Have you ever met anyone from South America? Maybe they're all women there. Tons and tons of beautiful women."  
"That's completely ridiculous."  
"I can hope!" This was getting worse and worse. So much for wholesome conversation. "Why can't I fucking hope, huh?"  
"It just makes no sense. Whyever would you want a wife?"  
"Because... Because it's what people do." In desperation for a reason, America searched the yards beyond the fence. Behind the thin clouds of gnats surrounding them both as though they were rotting insect gods, there was a married couple several fields away. They stood arm in arm, watching their laughing kids on a swingset. One of the swings flipped upside down and the mother rushed to comfort the fallen child. "Look at them. They're so happy. That's how life is meant to be, not spent alone."  
"They're human, America. They breed. They're on a different level from us. They probably can't even see this house here, much less us."  
America leaned against the grill, the sun-hot metal hurting his palms. "Does that matter? I look human, I act human, I feel human. And it's just not normal for me to be a bachelor at this age. Do you know what my marriage rate is? Ninety-seven percent, Britain. Ninety-seven, and I'm single."  
"So? We're nations, they're not. There aren't enough women to go around. Just because we can feel love doesn't mean we're meant to marry. We make do with what we have."  
America's stomach twisted with nausea again. "What are you implying?" He gripped the side of the grill, ignoring the pain of the heat.  
"Nothing. Just that you're being stupid." Britain seemed confused, and concerned.  
America looked away. Ideas began to come unheeded into his mind - suspicions that fit satisfyingly together, though he couldn't pin down and analyze a single one. But they were there, gnawing at him, making more and more sense. "You're one of them, aren't you?" he asked Britain softly.  
"One of who?"  
"The communists. They've gotten to you." He didn't want to speak above a smooth whisper.  
Britain shook his head. "You're being ridiculous again. I don't know what you're talking about."  
"I always knew you Europeans would fall first." He stepped forward. "How many of you are there by now? Have all of you submitted?"  
"Stop it. You know full well that I'm the same as I've always been." Britain closed his magazine and put it to the side.  
America moved forward further, making sure Britain had no chance to spring now that he had been found out. "Although you know, I never did think my own brother would go to their side. One of your kind on my own land. It's a good thing I've discovered you."  
"America. Stop. It's not cute, it's not funny anymore." Britain's tone of voice rose as America's stayed flat, becoming almost a shout.  
America realized he was still holding the skewer from the grill. Excellent, he was armed. He pressed the points against Britain's neck. The flesh gave easily, which was satisfying.  
Britain gagged. "Wh-what are you doing?" he croaked. "Honestly, it's time to stop this. Please."  
"Tell me why you did it. Tell me everything you know and I might let you free. Then again, you don't deserve..." America let himself trail off, and instead jabbed up with the skewer. Blood welled up around the points.  
Britain shrieked girlishly. "America! Stop! It's just me! Don't you know me? I'm England! Your brother!" It wasn't a terribly coherent plea, but it broke through the anger and terror anyway. His brother. This was just his brother. No devil, no demon. He lowered the skewer, and Britain took a few grateful breaths and wiped blood and burger grease off his neck. "Bloody hell," he whispered. "What was that about?"  
"I... I don't know. I just... thought you might be..." America couldn't really explain himself, so he just went with rubbing the back of his neck and shrugging. He didn't really understand himself what he had been thinking, or if he had been thinking at all. "I'm sorry."  
"It's... It's all right, I suppose." Blood continued to well up under his chin, and he pressed the back of his hand against it. "Do you have a bandage I could use?"  
"Yeah. Sure." America turned to go inside.  
"You know, I've been thinking," said Britain, causing America to look back at him. "You don't seem quite right lately. Perhaps you should see a doctor."  
I'm fine, America thought of saying. Or: Nothing's wrong. But in his shame he looked down at his hand, and noticed he was still holding the red grip of the skewer, knuckles white and bloodless. He dropped the skewer on the grass. "Yeah. A doctor. That would be good."  
Britain nodded, hand pressed to his chin thoughtfully. Blood trickled off the side. "It'd be best for all of us."  
On the grill, the neglected burgers burst into flame. America ran to put them out.

America was, after he thought about it a bit more, skeptical of the doctor idea. Did psychiatry even work on nations? Was there even a doctor willing to treat them? But Britain assured him that France knew a guy who knew a guy who was willing and able, and after what had happened that day America wasn't about to argue. He still didn't know if he had meant what he had done. It was at least worth figuring that out.  
So one Thursday afternoon, with a hat pulled down over his eyes for extra privacy and cool secret agent points, America took an elevator up to an office in the city. There was another person in the elevator, who smiled at him, and America smiled and nodded back, and then they had to wait awkwardly as the dial ticked through the next eleven floors. And then he stepped out into the hall, and made his way to room 1142, and opened the door very quietly.  
He was about to sit down in the orange-lit waiting room and read a Sports Illustrated when the door opened. "Mr. Jones?"  
"That's - wait. You're the therapist?"  
Germany blinked. He was wearing reading glasses and a brown suit, looking very professorial and respectable. As if. "Yes. Is this a problem?"  
America sputtered at him. "But you're nuts yourself!"  
"You think so?" Germany seemed honestly curious as to what was the answer.  
"You tried to take over the world a few years ago. I'd call that crazy."  
"I recognize my error. Now come on, we're supposed to be talking in my office. At least humor me while you insult me." Germany walked back into his office, leaving the door (marked LUDWIG BEILSCHMIDT, Ph.D.) ajar. America stared at it for a minute, snorted, and followed him in.  
There was only one chair, currently occupied, so he sat on the edge of the couch and faced Germany. "Shouldn't Austria be the analyst? Freud was Austrian, wasn't he?"  
"Well, my brother has no interest in helping others. I do. Lie down on the couch, you're not supposed to be sitting up." Germany crossed his legs, looking comfortable.  
America ignored that part. "And when did you become a humanitarian? How many people did you have to kill before you grew morals?"  
Germany stared over the top of his reading glasses. "I've known madness. I know how much harm one of us can do if we fall to it. And I intend to prevent it from ever happening again." The flat voice he used was chilling enough that America shuddered. "Now, why aren't you lying down?"  
"I don't feel like it." That didn't come out as defiant as he wanted, more whiny.  
"Fine. If you're more comfortable that way. What seems to be the problem, then?" Germany took out a small yellow-papered notepad.  
"What seems to be the problem? You don't trust me to know what my own problem actually is?"  
"You are trying my patience, boy," said Germany, tapping his pen against the paper. "Do you want my help or not?"  
"Fine." America flopped back against the couch. "It's simple. My life should be good, and it's not."  
"Care to elaborate?"  
"No."  
"I don't treat obnoxious patients."  
"Okay! I've been upset lately, okay?"  
Germany scribbled something. "About anything in particular?"  
"What are you writing? Lemme see that." America craned his head to look at the pad.  
Germany jerked it away. "You're ruining your chances of recovery by the minute here."  
"I'm serious, I need to know. This is sensitive information being revealed here. I have enemies. You know full well that I have enemies." He could feel that damn coldness gripping his gut again. Why did terror have to feel so disgusting?  
"Doctor-patient relationships should be based on trust." Germany clutched the pad to his chest.  
"I can't trust you, man. I can't trust any of you damn Europeans. You're - you're all slowly going over to their side. You'll be one of them s-soon enough. You're already, you're already falling-" This was physically painful.  
"Hey. Calm down. It's alright." Germany's voice was remarkably soothing for someone who was trying to kill him and all of his friends a few years ago.

America forced himself to breathe normally. He could beat this. He could beat anyone. Wasn't he the strongest of them? This should be easy. This shouldn't even have been a problem in the first place. "Yeah. Th-that's the issue, that right there."

"You mean your suspicions?"

America had to think about that one. "No." After all, what he believed was his own business. He had been gullible in the past; it was better now that he was cautious. "It's not that. It's the fear."

"Fear? Of what, precisely?"

Initially, America felt offended until he realized he wasn't sure. "I... look, I don't know. I can root out traitors, I can fend anyone off. There's no reason for me to be afraid."

Germany shook his head. "You don't need to deny the truth of your fears. It doesn't matter if the reason is there – the emotion is real."

"Thanks." That was a lovely sentiment there. Germany had this whole shrink-talk style down pat.

"So I take it then that these fears are not associated with anything in particular."

"No. I mean... yes. I mean, there is something – someone – that I'm afraid of. But I don't know what I'm afraid of them doing."

Germany waited a few seconds. "You have to tell me who they are for me to have any idea what you're talking about, you know."

"Right." Blood flooded America's face. He knew that. He just couldn't stand to speak their names. "The... the communists. The Soviets."

"Russia."

America cringed at the word. "You have to understand," he added quickly. "I'm not afraid of a war. I'd be fine with a war. I'd love to smash his face into the ground. It's just..." He stopped.

Germany nodded, as though he understood – which would be a miracle, because America had no idea what he was saying. "So how long have these fears been present?" he asked, saving America from having to finish his sentence.

"Since the war, mostly. But they've been getting worse."

"How so?"

"I... kind of flipped the other day."

Germany looked up from his writing. "What?"

"Like, I flipped out." America made a flippy hand gesture that he hoped was any use in terms of explanation.

Germany blinked at him. "I'm not familiar with that term."

Damned European. He was America, speak English. "I... uh... I thought my brother was one of them. England, I mean."

"Them meaning the communists?"

America's face burned again. "Yeah."

"And what did you do?"

"I... I threatened him, a little. Waved a skewer around. Nothing much."

"Did you try to kill him?" Germany asked abruptly.

America drew in breath and slowly turned to face him. "How the fuck did you know?"

Panic flashed across Germany's face before he re-assumed his usual impassive stare. "Just a guess."

"Don't lie," America hissed. "He told you, didn't he?"

"He... he mentioned something of the sort to me. Just as a precaution." Germany acted as though all Britain had told him about was America's favorite color.

"A precaution? In case I suddenly start running after all of you with a chainsaw, is that it?"

"This is a life-and-death matter for all of us, America," Germany explained, as though he were talking to a child. "We already know Russia is entirely unpredictable. We thought we could rely on you to act reasonably. If anything happens to your mind..." He broke eye contact. "We can't risk it."

America stared at him, nails digging into the fabric of the couch. "You know what you are?"

"What?"

"A shitty shrink." He got up to leave.

Germany's eyes widened. "Forgive me. I didn't think the ordinary rules of -"

"Shut it."

"-doctor-patient confidentiality -"

"Dp dp dp." America made a little "shut up" gesture with his hand. "I can take care of myself, thank you." He walked out.

Germany stared after him. "We have an appointment next Thursday, remember!" he called out. America didn't respond.


End file.
